


Impulsive Acts

by BuzzCat



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Gen, Suicidal Ideation, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-26
Updated: 2018-06-26
Packaged: 2019-05-29 01:30:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15062105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BuzzCat/pseuds/BuzzCat
Summary: After Stan is kicked out, he tries something dangerous. And much to his surprise, he's around to discover that his actions have consequences.Please read the tags before reading the story.





	Impulsive Acts

**Author's Note:**

> read the tags guys, this doesn't really start as a happy story and the end doesn't really qualify as 'happy' so much as 'hopeful'

It began with a ledge.

After Pa kicked him out, Stan had driven the Stanley Mobile until it ran out of gas. When the car was puttering out just before the Massachusetts state line, Stan pulled over and leaned his head on the wheel, closing his eyes.

He had known this was coming.

Stan had known, since he was old enough to understand that knowledge is valuable and punching things is not, that this was how it was going to end. Pa getting mad, kicking him out of the house. Stan had seen that coming ages ago. He’d never imagined the man would actually follow through on it—that Ma would let him go through with it—but either way, it had crossed Stan’s mind before that he might one day find himself without a home.

He’d never imagined he’d find himself without a twin.

Stan slammed his hand against the dash in frustration. He felt tears prickling at the back of his eyes, felt his shoulders beginning to shake with sobs he refused to let out. He couldn’t cry, not over this. Crying was bullshit, at least for him. Stan’s job was to protect people and he couldn’t do that if he was wiping tears out of his damn eyes. Despite his protest, he felt a single drop of water begin to make its way down his face.

He was a screw-up. He’d fucked up Ford’s chances of…of leaving him. But that was what Ford wanted. Stanley could feel it welling up in him, the feeling a monster gobbling him from the inside out. Ford wanted to leave him. Ford was tired of him. Ford was going to go out and do bigger and better things and Stanley…Stanley was going to be scraping barnacles off saltwater taffy stands until the end of his days. Looking out at some dumb stupid boat. What, he’d thought he and Ford were going to sail away? Go explore and stay together forever? Stan’s grip on the steering wheel went white-knuckled.

God, he was so fucking stupid. He’d fucked up Ford’s motion thing, fucked up Ford’s life. And now Pa and Ford wanted him gone before he could fuck up anything else. And really, could he blame them? He’d done enough damage as it was, no sense in giving him the chance to do even more.

Stanley looked up from the steering wheel, seeing the bridge ahead of him. The river far below, coursing fast out into the harbor and the ocean and taking everything in the current with it.

Clarity hit Stan. He knew what he had to do, how he could never fuck anything up again.

He put the car in park. He rifled through the detritus in the car, eventually finding a receipt and an old pen. Hastily, he scribbled a note—‘Take good care of her, she’s a good car’—and stuck it on the passenger seat. He tucked the keys up in the visor, leaving the doors unlocked. Someone was going to need the car and it wasn’t going to be him.

Stan stepped out into the cooling evening air. It felt nice against his skin, overheated from sitting in the car too long and from some kind of emotional bullshit.

He walked up to the bridge, looking over the edge and staring down. Looking up at the sky, at the full moon lighting the place up like a flashlight. Stan carefully climbed over the railing until he was standing on the outside edge, his feet neatly balanced on the little ledge that was left and he could lean against the railing.

He stopped, looking up again. It really was a lovely night. Gorgeous, even. The kind where when they were little, he and Sixer—

Stan’s thoughts ground to a halt. Best not to think to much about Stanford right now. But the evening was nice and Stan quietly let it sink into him. He closed his eyes and soaked up the peace in the world, soaked it into the very fiber of his soul as he took in a deep breath. He held it for as long as he could, then slowly let it out. That was enough. It was time to make sure he couldn’t fuck things up for Ford ever again.

Stanley stood up from leaning against the railing, looking down into the water. He hesitated. Maybe it wasn’t far enough. Maybe it wouldn’t get the thing done; maybe he’d fuck this up too. But hadn’t Ford mentioned something about if you hit water from high enough, it was like smashing into concrete? That should do the trick. Stan didn’t really have a better idea anyway.

He looked down, leaned forward, and let go.

As he was falling, before he hit the water, he thought he heard a car’s brakes squealing.

 

The first thing Stan realized was that he was in a hospital. Between the glaring white that filtered through his closed eyelids, the antiseptic smell of the place, and the steady beeping that he could hear to his left, it was the only thing that made sense.

He wasn’t dead. Which was…odd.

The thing that didn’t make the most sense, however, was the fact that he was holding someone’s hand. Or rather, someone was holding his hand. Which didn’t make any sense at all. Who the fuck—

Oh.

Stan counted the fingers again, just to make sure. And yeah, that was six of ‘em. He cracked his eyes open, squinting against the bright light. Ford was sitting in the chair beside his bed, conked out and sprawled in a position that only Ford could sleep in. His hand was still holding Stanley’s.

“Ford?” Stanley’s throat was croaky from disuse. Or from swallowing too much polluted river water, that was also a possibility.

Ford’s head shot up like he’d heard gunfire. His eyes zeroed in on Stanley. Stanley, awake. Stanley, _alive_.

“What the hell were you thinking?” Ford hissed. Stanley frowned and tried to pull away but Ford only held on tighter, grabbing tight to his hand and flying out of the chair to grab Stanley’s shoulder. He practically shook Stanley, “Stan what were you _doing_?”

“Geez Sixer, calm down. I was—”

“Calm down? CALM DOWN?” Ford roared, “HOW CAN I CALM DOWN WHEN MY OWN BROTHER TRIED TO—“Ford seemed to choke on whatever word was coming next. He sank back into his chair, his hand running down his face in an action of exhaustion. Stan tried to get up and comfort his brother. However, when he tried to move his hands he discovered he was handcuffed to the rails of the bed. He looked at his brother in confusion,

“Ford, what’s the big deal? And why am I chained to a bed?”

“The big deal, Stanley,” Ford met Stan’s eyes and Stan could see something like despair reflected in his brother’s face, “is that you tried to…that you almost died. That’s why the handcuffs. It’s what they do for people who are…who might…who try to die.”

Stanley looked down, unable to meet Ford’s face.

“That wasn’t what I was trying to do,” he said quietly. Ford didn’t even look up,

“Don’t lie, Stanley. You jumped off a bridge; what else could you have been trying to accomplish.”

Stanley opened his mouth to answer the non-question, but the words wouldn’t come. He couldn’t lay that kind of guilt at Ford’s feet, even if it was true. Ford looked up when Stanley didn’t say anything. He looked at Stanley’s face and saw guilt and…conflict? That was unexpected. Ford leaned forward, looking at Stanley curiously,

“Stanley? What were you trying to accomplish?”

Stanley mumbled something without making eye contact.

“You know I can’t understand when you’re mumbling,” Ford admonished. Stanley gave a half-smile. That was just like Ford, on his case for not properly enunciating. It was the first thing in the whole damn day that felt right. Stanley took a breath and looked up, looked Ford right in the eye and said,

“I was trying to get out of your life.”

Shocked silence from Ford.

Stanley continued, “I was just screwing things up. I screwed up your dreams. I was—I _am_ holding you back. I thought that maybe I’d found a way to stop screwing up, to stop dragging you down,” he looked down at his lap and muttered, “I guess I even managed to screw _that_ up.”

Ford could only sit there, utterly stunned. Stanley had tried to die because he thought he was a screw-up? Ford opened his mouth automatically to refute the statement, but nothing came. Stanley had screwed up. He’d screwed up Ford’s chances of getting out of New Jersey, of getting into a college where he could really shine. And because of Stanley interference, he wasn’t going. The thought still made him boil but how could he say that now? When he compared the two, having a dream school to having a brother, there was no comparison.

“You’re my brother, Stanley.” Stan looked up at Ford’s soft words. “I mean, we live different lives and do different things, but you’re still my brother.” Stan looked down, any interest in Ford’s words withering,

“Yeah, and some brother I turned out to be,” he scoffed. Ford glared at him,

“Don’t say that.” Stanley didn’t look up. Ford finally threw his hands up in frustration, “Where? Where is all this coming from? A few weeks ago things were _fine_.” He hoped Stanley couldn’t hear the lie in that. A few weeks ago, Ford had been feeling choked by Stan’s constant presence. Always there, always clinging. It made Ford feel like he couldn’t breathe some days. But now was not the time to have that conversation.

Stanley looked up at him with a wry smile on his face, “’Things were fine’? Ford, things haven’t been fine for a long time and you know it.” Ford’s jaw dropped. How could Stanley know? He thought he’d hid it so well, the frustration and irritation with his constant presence. Stanley continued, “You’re about as subtle as a brick wall when it comes to getting tired of me, Ford. I knew. I knew you wanted to leave, wanted me out and gone. I just didn’t want to believe it,” Stan looked at somewhere past Ford’s left ear as he finished, unable to look his brother in the eye.

Ford couldn’t believe it. Stan _knew_. Stan _knew_ how he felt and he’d still pushed to hang around Ford. But that was anger for a different time. He boxed it up and put it away, focusing on the original intent behind his question,

“But what about the rest of it? Stan, I’ve never heard you speak so badly about yourself.”

“Yeah well, that’s because everyone else was busy doing it. I figured I’d finally get in on the hot action of calling it like it is. Stan, the loser. Stan, the screw-up. Stan, the dead weigh—”

“Don’t,” Ford spoke through gritted teeth, his fists clenched and bloodless, “don’t talk about yourself like that.”

“And why not? Everyone else likes to say it.”

“Because the last person to talk that badly about me ate a knuckesandwich, courtesy of you, and I suddenly deeply empathize with your motivation behind that. And no one says that, Stanley.”

Stan gave Ford a look like he’d just said the Earth was flat. He spoke slowly, as if explaining something simple, “Ford, _everybody_ says that. Pa, the kids at school, teachers. Everyone in this town knows I’m going nowhere. I just never thought about it because…” Stan hesitated and realization clicked on like a lightbulb for Ford.

“…because I never said it,” Ford said quietly. He was a fool, a damned fool with his head in his books, for not seeing it sooner. All the whispers he’d ever heard suddenly seemed to come crawling out of the woodwork, things he’d ignored because he was too busy with his academic pursuits. The disdainful looks teachers gave Stanley, the way their Pa wouldn’t acknowledge Stanley unless he appeared with a paycheck in hand. It all clicked and Ford couldn’t tell if he wanted to cry or if he wanted to fight them all, one by one, for making his brother feel like this.

“Yeesh, you alright Sixer? You’re looking a little…murdery.”

“I’m fine,” Ford said, eyes still unfocused as he mentally went through his newly formed list of people to decimate. Stanley didn’t respond and Ford blinked, focusing back on his brother. He looked down at his fingers, all twelve of them, and thought of all the times Stanley had stood in his corner and fought off anyone who dared to make him feel like less. And yet when people looked down on Stanley, when they made him feel small like they’d done to Ford all those years ago, what had Ford done? He’d joined in. Ford buried his head in his hands, muttering to himself, “I’m a terrible brother.”

“Geez, now who’s mumbling?” Stanley said good-naturedly from the bed. Ford looked at his brother, frowning,

“How can you be so nonchalant about this? You’re tied to a bed, in a hospital, _on suicide watch_ , and you’re cracking jokes.” Belatedly, Ford realized that was the first time either of them had said the word in relation to what Stan had tried to do. Stan shrugged,

“I guess it’s just easier. Either I can crack a stupid joke or we have to have an actual adult conversation about things. We already tried to adult conversation route and that was just a bitch to get through.” Ford couldn’t disagree with that. But still, this wasn’t something they could joke about until it went away. Stanley’s actions had roots, roots that Ford wanted to dig up and burn to the ground. And the only way to do that was through actual adult conversation. He swallowed, looking up at his brother,

“I’m sorry, Stanley. For not standing up to people and for the part I played in this. For losing my temper, for not trying to stop Pa.”

Stanley nodded as he spoke. Ford knew it was too much to ask for forgiveness; all he could do was apologize. Stanley shrugged as he finished speaking, “I mean, it’s not like it’s your fault. There were a lot more players in this game than just you and me, Sixer.”

Ford nodded, “But I mean, we can talk about this, right? We can…we can come back from this?” He couldn’t keep the hope out of his voice. Stan smiled at him,

“Yeah, we can come back from this. And listen, wherever you end up going to school, it’s…it’s okay.”

“And I mean, you can come with, if you want to. Moving across the country on my own is a bit…daunting, and it would be nice to have someone I knew in the same city.” And truly, Ford wanted to keep an eye on Stanley. When he thought about what might have happened if he had waited to ask Shermie for a ride just a little bit longer, if they’d driven just a little bit slower, he felt his heart stop at the thought. Stan, unaware of the track Ford’s thoughts had taken, grinned at him,

“Live in the same apartment building?”

“I think it could be arranged,” Ford said with a smile. This was good. This was a good start. They could make this better. They could be okay. But…Ford’s smile fell, and he looked at Stanley, “And Stanley, if you ever start thinking, or feeling, like…like doing something like that, you can’t.” Stanley opened his mouth to answer but Ford cut him off, “Talk to me first, please?” He was begging, and he knew it. Stanley paused, then shrugged,

“Yeah, I suppose we can try to communicate like functional people.”

Ford let out a breath he hadn’t thought he was holding, “Thank you.” He reached out and grabbed Stanley’s hand, holding tight, “Thank you.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm always taking prompts for Gravity Falls stuff! And I promise, I am capable of writing happy things. Leave your prompts in the comments here or get in touch over on my Tumblr: beatrice-babe.tumblr.com


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